![]() ![]() He turned up the volume, filling the truck with an Arabic version of “Despacito,” and we sped along the main road, past the moonlit silhouettes of the jagged mountains that define this part of the Omani coastline. Our communication was further confused by his insistence on playing loud music as we drove. But as we talked, I realized that when he said here, he sometimes meant there, right could mean left, near was more like very far. Certainly, his English was better than my Arabic, which consisted of 20 or so words, only six of which I could properly pronounce. “I am Qaboos,” he said and off we went through the darkened streets.Īs we drove to his stable in Barka, about an hour up the coast, I discovered that Qaboos often mixed up words. That morning, before dawn, an aging pickup rumbled up to my guesthouse in Muscat, Oman’s capital city, and out stepped a handsome young man in his 20s wearing riding pants and tall black boots, his hair freshly cut, his mustache neatly trimmed. Qaboos and I had met through a daisy-chain of connections and acquaintances after I’d told a friend that one of my lifelong desires was to ride Arabian horses in the birthplace of the breed. It had taken me a while to grasp all of this information, which Qaboos had delivered in broken English. some years back to boost its Arabian bloodstock.Or so I gathered. His name was Scarzo, a former racehorse that the stable had imported to Oman from the U.S. ![]() “From Amreeka, like you,” said the trainer, Qaboos. ![]()
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